


Shatter Me

by phantomthief_fee



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomthief_fee/pseuds/phantomthief_fee
Summary: The Projectionist is a tragic figure. A windup toy doomed to act out the same story over and over, with only fleeting moments of understanding.





	Shatter Me

**[marie-lamb-b](https://marie-lamb-b.tumblr.com/) asked: Hi, Cat! How you doing? ^-^ Still taking prompts? 'Cause I have a little one for you: Norman/The Projectionist with the song Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling. Have fun! ^O^**

Oooh! This is really interesting!

* * *

_I pirouette in the dark_   
_ I see the stars through a mirror_   
_ Tired mechanical heart_   
_ Beats 'til the song disappears_

He wasn’t sure what kept him going. He didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know why he kept trudging through these halls. Perhaps it was the machinery that had been somehow grafted into his body. A reel on his shoulder, a speaker in his chest, pipes connecting to his back. Had he the sapience to properly think about it, he might have speculated that he had a mechanical heart now. Everything else important seemed to have been converted into machinery. That or ink. He was like a clockwork windup toy. Someone had turned his key and now he was forced to move until his gears stopped turning. 

It was always the same. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. He couldn’t have stopped, even if he wanted to. Something forced him to keep going. Through the halls, past the projectors, past the corpses. It was easy to get lost in those winding hallways if you didn’t know them properly. But he knew them by heart. He knew every turn, every corner. He’d been trudging through them long enough that it was muscle memory.

It was silent in his labyrinth. The only thing he could ever hear was the whir of the projector in his ears. <strike>Did he even **have** ears anymore? Probably not.</strike> Sometimes he’d stop to watch the cartoons. There wasn’t any sound, but he imagined music. He imagined a jaunty little tune, one he’d heard before. _<strike>He was in a dark room, the sounds of the band drifting up to him from down below</strike>. _

He imagined whistling. 

That damned whistling. 

<strike>Smiling, always smiling. </strike>

<strike>Why didn’t **he** ever stop smiling?</strike>

<strike>His blood pounding in his ears as he struggled against restraints.</strike>

<strike>”̨Y̵o̴u ̸shoul̛d͟n’t͡ ͝h͢ave g͜on̵e̷ loo͜k̛i̵n҉g̶ ̷f͝or̶ t̡rơu̸b̵le͟,̢ Norm̴a̕n͜.̶”</strike>

##  **Stop! **

He screamed, clutching his head with his hands. He hoped he would feel hair, skin. Instead, he just felt the hard edges of the projector. His scream sounded wrong. Staticky. It wasn’t right. It was never right. Had he been able to cry, he might have cried at that moment. 

Eventually, he let his hands drop. He began his trek once more, heavy boots sloshing through the thick ink. 

One foot in front of another. Over and over and over again. Like clockwork. 

_Somebody shine a light_   
_ I'm frozen by the fear in me_   
_ Somebody make me feel alive_   
_ And shatter me_   
_ So cut me from the line_   
_ Dizzy, spinning endlessly_   
_ Somebody make me feel alive_   
_ And shatter me_

He might as well have been dead for all the thinking he did. He was a mindless creature, lacking the ability to even wonder about the state he found himself in. One might have compared him to a zombie. Just a mindless reanimated corpse, shuffling about until he saw a living creature and was overwhelmed with the desire to attack and destroy. Maybe it was better that way. After all, the flashes of sapience and clarity he did receive were horrifying. Brief moments where he realized what had happened and remembered how much pain he was in. 

He was **always** in pain. But most of the time it was just a low hum. He’d gotten so used to it that it barely even registered. His neck ached from keeping up the projector all the time, the machinery parts stuck in his body pulsed with wrongness. But it was fine. This was what his body always felt like. This was all he could remember. Until the clarity struck him. 

Then he remembered what he’d once been. Then he remembered how terribly his body had been twisted. Then he **knew** that this was not normal. It was Hell. He’d been turned into a monster, something no longer human. It was horrifying to realize. In those moments, he prayed for something to break him from this torment. He wanted to die. Because whatever he was right now, it sure as Hell wasn’t alive. He was a puppet on a string, forced to dance to <strike>Joey’s</strike> someone else’s tune. 

He wanted this to end. He wanted it to all be over. 

Norman had never been a suicidal person. He’d had friends and family who were, but that hadn’t been him. Not back then. Now, however...Well, the studio could do things to a person.

_If only the clockwork could speak_   
_ I wouldn't be so alone_   
_ We'd burn every magnet and spring_   
_ And spiral into the unknown_

He was alone down there, in that darkness. Just him, the projectors, and the corpses of the few beings foolish enough to venture to his domain. It was so lonely. He may not have exactly been sapient, but he was still lonely. The desire to be with others was something ingrained in human nature. Humans are naturally social creatures, after all. 

Not even Joey Drew’s twisted experiments could take away the need to be around other people.

However, those experiments had taken away Norman’s ability to be around other creatures without trying to attack them. Or maybe that had been a later addition by Alice to make an effective guard dog. The Projectionist craved companionship but was unable to have it. Sometimes he remembered his family, the warmth of his wife beside him when he lay in bed. If he concentrated, he could still barely remember their faces. 

There was no comfort in the studio. He supposed even if he **was **able to be around other creatures, he wouldn’t feel any better. Nearly every other creature besides the Borises were hostile. Even if the Projectionist didn’t attack any others he laid eyes on, they would certainly attack him. In this place...maybe it was better to be alone.

_If I break the glass then I'll have to fly_   
_ There's no one to catch me if I take a dive_   
_ I'm scared of changing_   
_ The days stay the same_   
_ The world is spinning but only in gray_

Some part of him was scared of what would happen if he tried to break his routine. Nothing ever changed in the studio, and part of him was scared of what would happen if they did. He didn’t remember the time loops the way that Henry did, but the Projectionist always had the vague feeling that he had to follow the Rules. Although, it wasn’t as though the Projectionist was able to do much outside of his role. Norman had been a clever man, hence why Joey had removed his sapience and agency for this story.

Every time Norman remembered who he was and had the desire to leave his assigned area, he found himself unable to go through with it. There was a deep fear that lanced through him at the idea of breaking the unspoken rules. As much as Norman, and everyone else, **wanted** things to change, they feared it too much to actually try. Save for Alice, that was. But he could never be Alice.

_Somebody shine a light_   
_ I’m frozen by the fear in me_   
_ Somebody make me feel alive_   
_ And shatter me_   
_ So cut me from the line_   
_ Dizzy, spinning endlessly_   
_ Somebody make me feel alive_   
_ And shatter me _

It was almost a relief when the Ink Demon ripped the projector off of his body. Whatever logic had been keeping him alive dictated that he was no longer alive when his ‘head’ was removed from his body. Norman could have cried, he was so overjoyed. It was a change. It was something different. He could die. He could move on. 

But…he couldn’t. Once Henry reached the machine, it would start all over again. Norman didn’t know that, though. And he never would. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really feel bad for Norman. He got the short end of the stick.


End file.
